


perne in a gyre

by dirtybinary



Category: Ancient History RPF, Punic Wars RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Disaster Millennials, Gratuitous Misuse of Latin & Romance Languages, M/M, Mixed Media, Nipple Piercings, slightly cracky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 00:05:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14366643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtybinary/pseuds/dirtybinary
Summary: Hannibal backpacks across Europe after graduation, stays with a nice Italian family, and meets a twink.





	perne in a gyre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tibeyg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tibeyg/gifts).



> Happy birthday to my girlfriend [Jocelin](http://gayusoctgayvius.tumblr.com) and her girlfriend Rome! ❤︎

**I. BARCELONA**

“I’m going to live rough,” Hannibal announced. “Sleep on park benches. Subsist on petrol kiosk crackers. Talk to no one and become a hermit.”

“What if someone talks to you?” asked Hasdrubal.

Hannibal slung his backpack over his shoulders and took a last glance around their parents’ living room, with its crystal chandeliers, its sherry decanters, the plush scarlet rug that had been a gift from the King of Morocco. “I’ll pretend I only know Arabic.”

“Hm,” said his brother. “Let me know how that works out for you.”

 

* * *

**II. LAGO PATRIA**

It worked out perfectly fine, until he hitchhiked across the Alps into Italy and met the family who owned the converted ranch in Campania.

It was the last leg of his Grand European Tour, and he had decided it wouldn’t ruin the aesthetic of his trip too much to sleep in an actual house for once. The ranch belonged to a woman in her forties named Pomponia, whose daughter went to MIT and was home for the summer. The father was away on business, and the boys were touring Rome with friends from school, so it was lovely to have someone around the house for company, wasn’t it, Cornelia? Neither of them even asked about his eye, or stared at the bandana with which he had taken to covering it in lieu of wearing shades indoors like a jackass, and so—within minutes of stepping through the door—Hannibal found himself at the dinner table with them, being fed colossal servings of homecooked carbonara while he answered questions about his family and where he was from.

“Oh, I know where Tunisia is,” said Cornelia. “It’s the bit of Africa that looks like it’s giving Europe the finger.”

“It does,” said Hannibal, pleased.

Then, of course, there was a godawful thumping from the porch, and the front door rattled and burst open. Cornelia and her mother exchanged silent, eloquent looks, and Hannibal was just wondering if they were about to be set upon by armed robbers when in blew the least robberlike personage he could have imagined: a young man about Mago’s age, tall and gangling, in a stonewashed denim jacket over a neon green _thing_ that could best be described as a crop top, and extremely short shorts. “Marcus Porcius is a rat’s asshole,” the personage announced, letting go of his immense Samsonite suitcase (metallic purple) so it hit the floor with a thunk. “And Rome is a steaming tourist trap, so what do you know, guess I’m spending the summer at home. Who’s this?”

He was looking at Hannibal. Hannibal stared back. It was hard not to. There was a rosy sunburn hueing the newcomer’s cheeks and exposed midriff, which he seemed to have decided that the best way to cover up was with body glitter, in copious quantity. A pair of crossed spears was embroidered on one lapel of his jacket, the letters _S.P.Q.R._ on the other. Cornelia rolled her eyes. “Ciao, Pubes.”

“This,” said Pomponia, “is Hannibal, the backpacker who’s staying in your room for the next two weeks. You know, the room I listed on Airbnb because you said you were going to be in Rome all summer.”

“Oh.”

Pomponia kneaded the bridge of her nose. “Hannibal, my son Publius.”

“Hi, hello, _incantato_.” The glittery apparition named Publius came bouncing round the table to shake Hannibal’s hand, kicking off his Nikes as he went. His grip was solid and enthusiastic. “Guess you’ll have to take Lucius’ room instead. Do you like swords?”

It might have been a euphemism. In front of Pomponia Hannibal did not like to ask. “I love swords.”

“Publius,” said Pomponia, “you’re forgetting the thing with Lukey’s room.”

This did not bode well for a fortnight in a proper bed, but Publius did not seem to hear. “Good,” he said, “‘cause there was a souvenir shop on the Palatine and I impulse-bought all their pointy things in a fit of rage. I got a gladius, you look like a man who appreciates a good gladius. Also these, like, toothpick _pila_ , you know, Roman spears—”

Hannibal was somewhere between mesmerised and alarmed. “I do know.”

“—so you can pick your teeth with tiny murder sticks, as one does. And Cornelia, I got you a model quinquereme, we’ll have to figure out how to assemble it—”

“Publius.” Pomponia darted a glance at Hannibal, who would have liked very much to pick his teeth with a miniature Roman spear, this having been the subject of his doctoral dissertation; the spear, not the tooth-picking. “Are you listening to me?”

Publius’ hair, a sort of light bronze, was tumbling down into his eyes. “Yes, yes, what’s wrong with Lukey’s room?”

“Weasels,” said Cornelia promptly. “Great big screaming ones.”

“So we’ll give Hannibal the loft.”

“That one's rats. He’ll get the bubonic plague.”

It was like being at the opera. “I can sleep anywhere,” said Hannibal. “Honestly.”

Publius caught his eye and flashed him a broad, startling grin, as if he could somehow tell that Hannibal’s last permanent residence had been the penthouse suite at the W Barcelona. Pomponia sighed. “See,” she said, “that’s what you get when you live between a lake and a state reserve. Peace, quiet, and weasels. You don’t mind sharing Publius’ room? He can sleep on the spare mattress.”

Belatedly, Hannibal looked away from the glittery collarbones. “I don’t mind if he doesn’t.”

“That’s settled, then,” said Publius. He flopped into the empty chair between his mother and Hannibal, and reached for a clean plate. “Now let’s eat, I’m ravished.”

“You mean,” said Hannibal, “famished?”

“Ravished,” said Publius happily.

The room was full of clothes and books and assorted trinkets. Hannibal, by now sick of squinting at his Kindle, could not resist a thorough investigation of the two bookshelves wedged behind the door: Jodi Picoult, Paulo Coelho; an impressive number of Nancy Drews, at which he did not sneer. He’d read far too many of those himself. Yeats, Keats, _Semiotics: A Primer_. Five translations of Sappho, Catullus in the original Latin. _De Bello Gallico_ , at which Hannibal did sneer. “What do you study?”

He glanced round, and immediately regretted it. Publius was at the dresser with his back to Hannibal, shrugging out of his jacket. As Hannibal watched, he raised his arms to pull off his crop top, revealing the long expanse of his back, smooth and pale and dusted with golden freckles. His nipples were pierced. Hannibal knew this because the dresser mirror was angled to give him a perfect, diabolical view of the two miniature wolf’s heads Publius happened to be wearing up there. “Long answer or short answer?” asked Publius.

His reflection glimmered a smile. Hannibal turned away carefully and climbed into bed—Publius’ bed, a double, with a carved eagle spreading its wings across the wooden headboard. Its beak was long and sharp and promontoric. If he sat up too quickly in the morning he was going to lose his other eye. “I really don’t think a short answer could cover it.”

Publius beamed, as if this was a compliment. “Did a year at Harvard Law,” he said, the way one might have said, _Did a year at Rikers. Aggravated assault._ “Hated it. Took me a while to get thrown out, but I’m up at Bologna now. Double degree in philosophy and—”

“Fashion design,” said Hannibal.

“Of course.”

Publius retrieved a book from his suitcase—Plato’s _Symposium_ —and flopped onto the mattress by the bed. He was still very shirtless. His legs were long and toned, with a faded surgical scar running beneath the left knee. Sports, then. “What about you? This your grad trip?”

“Yeah,” said Hannibal. “I did military history.” He was studying, with great concentration, the elephant print on the bedspread. Trunk, tail, trunk, tail. Dumb little squiggle smiles. “You know. Wars. Romans.”

That sentence needed a few more verbs and qualifying adjectives, but Publius understood him perfectly. “Legions,” he said. “Ships. Triumphs.”

“Defeats.”

Publius’ smile grew sharp. The wolf heads winked dangerously. Knowing him, he had probably named them Remus and Romulus, or something. “Remind me to show you my gladius tomorrow,” he said. “I’m going to read a bit. Mind if I keep the light on?”

He had stuffed the _Symposium_ under his pillow, and pulled a Nicholas Sparks novel from the shelf instead. “Sure,” said Hannibal faintly. “Sure.”

He pulled his bandana down so it covered his good eye as well, and drew the marching elephants over his head. He was sharing a room with some kind of glittery Italian twink, and there was a grumpy eagle glowering at him from the headboard as if he’d offended it in a past life, but at least he couldn’t see the wolf piercings anymore, so it was fine. It was all just fine.

He would say they fell into a comfortable routine, except no such thing could ever exist around Publius Scipio.

“It’s rare we get young people here,” said Pomponia over breakfast the next morning. It was just the two of them: Hannibal had had to step over a sleeping Publius to get his clothes from his backpack, and pad noiselessly past Cornelia’s closed door to the bathroom at the end of the hall. “Most students come here, they want to see the big cities, Rome and Florence and Venice. Maybe Pompeii if they’re into that kind of thing. Cornelia calls Lago Patria the ass-end of Italy.”

“I’ve been to all those places for school,” Hannibal pointed out. “I wanted something different.”

“Ah, yes, you’re a history type like Publius.” Pomponia handed him another enormous croissant to stuff with butter and jam. He’d already had two. “Our family’s from Rome originally. We love it, you’ve probably noticed, but the summer crowds get a bit much.”

“They sure do,” said Publius’ bright voice from the door. “Gotta love those sexy Roman ruins though, right?”

He was still wearing last night’s short shorts, this time with a tie-dyed tank top that showed off his biceps quite nicely, and—Hannibal was unnerved to note—did nothing to conceal the outlines of Remus and Romulus lurking beneath. He also happened to be waving a gladius. It was an impressive replica, with a shiny two-foot blade and a varnished wooden grip, quite true to history. Publius gave it a few showboaty spins—he had clearly fenced before—and placed the point, not ungently, against Hannibal’s chest. “Hand over the coffee and no one gets hurt.”

The sword was sharp. Not sharp enough to kill a man, but enough that Hannibal could feel it sting through the knit of his sweater. “Publius,” said Pomponia, “if you could kindly refrain from murdering our guest.”

“That’s fine,” said Hannibal. He was examining the blade between thumb and forefinger. “You found it like this in the shop?”

“Nah, sharpened it myself,” said Publius, looking pleased that Hannibal had noticed. “On the bus yesterday, with a pebble. Coffee.”

It was a compelling image: Publius on the coach to Lago Patria, in his crop top and body glitter, furiously whetting a sword with his tongue between his teeth while the other passengers stared. Or maybe they were used to that sort of thing here. When in Rome, and all that. Hannibal picked up the coffee pot by his elbow, raised it in a toast, and—still holding Publius’ gaze—drained it in one long swig.

“Damn,” said Publius. The sword twitched along the collar of Hannibal’s sweater. “Can’t even be mad.”

Pomponia said, “Publius—”

“Fresh pot coming up, mamma. Here, for you.”

He dropped the gladius in Hannibal’s lap and bounded over to the kitchen counter to start the espresso machine. Pomponia rubbed her temples.

After breakfast Hannibal usually went off by himself, going on long rambles in the wooded reserve near the ranch, or hitching a ride into Naples to sightsee around town. He went to bookstores, and sketched in museums, and sat in cafés scribbling in his journal. Back in May he’d set out from Barcelona with the vague notion of returning in triumph with a chapbook of gritty poetry he’d written on the road, all about sleeping under bridges and fighting off muggers and nearly freezing to death in the Alps, but mostly he wrote about the ranch in the country, and Pomponia’s cooking, and her strange, glittery son.

He got back to the house around tea-time one afternoon, and heard screams.

Pomponia was at work, and the ground floor was quiet. The noise was coming from upstairs: specifically, behind the closed door of the bedroom next to Publius’, the one belonging to the other boy. “Grab it!” Cornelia shrieked, and Publius yelled, “I’m trying!”

There was a great deal of stomping and crashing and swearing and screeching, both human and animal. The door burst open just as Hannibal reached it, disgorging Publius with a very disgruntled weasel in his arms. The weasel was screaming. So was Publius. He was in a long-sleeved varsity jersey with rhinestones glued around the collar, his sweat-limp hair plastered across his forehead. He saw Hannibal, and stopped screaming abruptly. The creature went on. “Weasel,” he explained.

“I hadn’t noticed,” said Hannibal.

More stomping, and a variety of Italian profanities. Then Cornelia erupted from the room in a comparable state of disarray, clutching a second weasel. “Oh, hello. There’s weasels.”

“Are there,” said Hannibal.

She kicked the door shut behind her. “Mamma told us to make ourselves useful and get rid of them while she was at work. There’s one left. The mean one. It bites.”

Both weasels were still screaming, and doing their best to squirm free. Hannibal wondered what sort of poetry he could write about this. Probably a limerick. “Need help?”

“You know what,” said Publius quickly, before Cornelia could answer. “We better leave the last one for pest control. Might be rabid.”

“What?” said Cornelia. Her hair was coming out of its bun. “No, it’s not.”

“You never know.”

“You coward, Pubes, you’re just scared it’ll claw up your pretty face—”

“Don’t call me that!”

Publius’ weasel sank its teeth into the hem of his jersey, screeching like a kettle boiling over. A rhinestone clattered to the floor, skittered past Hannibal’s left foot, and began to plink its way sadly down the stairs. Hannibal was rather tempted to stand back and get out his video camera, but then, it _would_ be a shame if Publius got disfigured by an angry tube with teeth. “I’ll go get a box, shall I,” he said.

There was an old wooden crate in the garage with a lid and wide enough gaps between the slats that the animals could breathe. By the time Hannibal got back upstairs, the noise had subsided to a sinister hissing (on the weasels’ part) and pointed stage-whispering (on the humans’). “Oh, good,” said Publius, hurrying over to deposit his weasel in the crate. “There’s a place down the road we could let them go. I’ll go with you, Cornelia’s got, uh, a date.”

“Sure I do,” said Cornelia sulkily.

Hannibal looked at Publius’ crooked, tentative grin, and down at his boxful of wildlife. He’d been planning to shower and head out to the lake to make some progress on Simone Weil’s _The Iliad, Or the Poem of Force_ while it was still bright out—he had a long reading list he meant to get through by the end of his trip, and a spreadsheet breaking down his itinerary into strategic fifteen-minute segments. He made some quick mental calculations, thought, _what the hell_ , and jettisoned it entirely. “Let’s go.”

Publius’ smile stretched a mile wide. “I love weasels.”

They let their prisoners go at the edge of a weedy field about a kilometre down the road from the ranch. The weasels sniffed the air suspiciously, then wriggled out of the crate and disappeared into the knee-high grass without a backward glance. “Sweet freedom,” said Publius.

They sat down on the curb together. “ _The weasel was stunned into stillness_ ,” Hannibal recited. “ _I was stunned into stillness. As if two lovers, or deadly enemies, met unexpectedly on an overgrown path when each had been thinking of something else: a clearing blow to the gut._ ”

“Annie Dillard,” said Publius. “ _Living Like Weasels_.”

“Is there anything you don’t read?”

“Nope.” Then he frowned. “My dad’s golf magazines.”

The grass rippled in a stirring breeze. Crows were circling an elm at the far edge of the field. Publius stretched out his long legs—in skintight black jeans today, it was a miracle he’d caught the weasel without ripping them—and ran his fingers over the spot on his collar where the missing rhinestone had been. “Meant to ask,” he said. “Why are you hitchhiking? You’re rich.”

“What?”

“You’re old money,” said Publius. “I googled you. Your dad’s an oil baron. You’re an oil baronet.”

It was the last place in the world Hannibal wanted to hear about his dad’s money. “It doesn’t work that way,” he said, annoyed. “What’d you google me for?”

“Can’t have my mama putting a serial killer in the room with me, can I?” asked Publius. He bumped Hannibal’s leg with his knee, and laughed. “ _Ioci terribiles_. You’re an interesting sort. I just wanted to see if you had a Facebook or something.”

Coming from Publius, that was a lot more flattering than it should have been. “And?”

“You don’t,” said Publius. “But I presume the Dr. H. Barca who presented a paper on Numidian cavalry in Oxford last winter was you.”

“Oh, no,” said Hannibal. “Oh, _no_. Don’t call me that.”

“It’s cute.”

“So’s Pubes.”

Publius bumped his leg again, harder this time. “Don’t be funny. You haven’t answered my question.”

Hannibal sighed. He’d seen Publius sweating and screaming at a weasel, so he probably owed him some form of honesty in return. “I didn’t want to travel on my family’s money. Had to get away from all of that, live rough. See if I could hack it on my own.”

“Eat greasy diner food,” said Publius, nodding in agreement. His hair, fluffy again now that the sweat had dried, flopped with each head-bob. “Buy only one book a week. Room with a boy who threatens you with swords.”

“I got a free sword, so we’re quits.”

Publius laughed, leaning back on his elbows. It was July; the days were long, the sun still high in the sky. “I left the last weasel on purpose.”

“I know,” said Hannibal.

He could hear it scratching away late at night, while Publius was in the bathroom going through his thirty-step skincare routine and Hannibal took advantage of the privacy to call his sister. “Sick of it yet?” asked Arishat one evening. “I can send Handsome over to get you in the jet.”

Voices babbled low in the background, and a synth beat was throbbing away, a strange but pleasing accompaniment to Lorde singing about tennis courts from Cornelia’s room. Arishat’s Sparafrench—their father’s affectionate nickname for the odd amalgamation of languages his children spoke among themselves, though there was much more to it than Spanish and Arabic and French—was heavy on the French tonight, which Hannibal took to mean she was calling from one of her properties on the Côte d’Azur. “I’m good, thanks.”

“ _Sérieux_?” said Arishat. “You’ve shared a room with some airhead twink for a week and haven’t killed him yet?”

The reminder that he had passed the midpoint of his stay struck a dissonant chord behind Hannibal’s ribs. “He’s not an airhead,” he said. “He likes swords.”

“Is that a euphemism?”

“ _J’sais pas_. He gave me one, anyway.”

“ _Please_ say that’s a euphemism.”

“Don’t be disgusting.”

Arishat sighed. “And to think you came close to fratricide last time you had to share a room.”

The doorknob turned. Publius came bounding in, shirtless as he always was at night, rubbing moisturiser on his hands. “Only because Mago listens to trash music,” said Hannibal. He was a little hoarse. The wolf heads were extremely burnished. “ _Faut que je file. Voici le twink._ ”

He hung up. “Who’s Mago?” asked Publius, looking put out.

“My brat brother,” said Hannibal. “That smells nice.”

“Orange blossom,” said Publius, cheerful once more. He flopped down on the edge of Hannibal’s bed—his bed—and proffered his hands for smelling. “Want some?”

Hannibal had discovered that if he tilted his head just so, Remus and Romulus disappeared into his blind spot, and it became possible for thought and speech to follow logical progressions once more. “Sure.”

Instead of handing the tube over, Publius squeezed out a generous dollop of creamy goo and began to slather it over Hannibal’s hands and wrists. His fingers were long and delicate, smooth except for a bumpy callus on the right thumb that Hannibal suspected might be from fencing. Publius took his time about it, rubbing in slow swirls across his knuckles, up the inside of his forearm. The smell of oranges filled the air. “Why are you holding your head like that?”

With a herculean force of will, Hannibal straightened his neck. The wolves were rose gold. So were the nipples. He managed an airy wave at his bad eye, covered with its bandana. “Gives me headaches sometimes.”

“Oh.” Publius bit his lip and, to Hannibal’s intense relief and disappointment, sat back a little. “Do you need a paracetamol? Something stronger?”

“No, thanks.”

“Mamma’s got horse-strength painkillers. Literally. She’s a vet.”

“I know,” said Hannibal. “It’s, ah, not that bad.”

Publius hesitated. He was getting the scrunch in his brow that Hannibal had come to associate with fervent strategising. Then he leaned in, and—gently, as if he were handling a stray— touched one citrus-slick finger to the bandana, just over Hannibal’s temple. “How’d you lose it?”

Hannibal was trapped against the headboard and its bloody eagle. If only he hadn’t told Arishat he was fine, he thought, his brother-in-law could have been on his way to airlift him out _right that moment_. “I’ve still got it.”

Publius waited for an elaboration. His hand stayed where it was. He knew exactly what he was doing, the conniving little creature. “First year at Cambridge,” said Hannibal. “Cold and wet and awful. I picked up some kind of infection doing fieldwork in a swamp for my archaeology elective. Didn’t want to see a doctor.”

“Hacking it on your own,” said Publius, nodding. The wolf heads glinted disapprovingly.

“Everyone already knew I was a billionnaire’s kid,” said Hannibal. It had been his first time away from home, and he’d skipped enough years of Primaria and Secundaria that he’d still been a dumb teenager. “I didn’t want to look pampered. It got better. Eventually.”

Publius winced. “Gives you migraines?”

“Sometimes. It doesn’t like light much. Less trouble to keep it covered.”

Publius got up and dimmed the room lights a little. It was both completely unnecessary and absurdly touching. Then he came back and stood leaning against the dresser, his legs crossed at the ankles, his lower lip puckered in thought. “You’ve lived lots of places.”

Hannibal nodded. Arishat had put departure on his mind. “You were born in Tunis?” said Publius. “Barcelona?”

“Sicily. Dad had to move there for work the year I was born.”

“Oil?”

“Luxury resorts,” said Hannibal. “Business went bad, so we moved back to Tunis when I was six or seven. Then Cádiz, then Barcelona.”

Publius traced the edge of the moisturiser tube with a finger; the same finger, Hannibal could not help but note, that had been touching his face a minute ago. “Do you remember all those places? The people you meet? Or do they just—blur together, once you leave?”

The room still smelled of oranges. Next door, the weasel was scratching away at the wall. “The places do,” said Hannibal. “The people—”

He waited till Publius looked up at him. “Never.”

Publius kept a single lamp on to read that night. He was done with Nicholas Sparks, and was starting in on the collection of Simone Weil essays Hannibal had lent him. Hannibal lay awake a long way past midnight, watching the face haloed in the golden light—each minute furrow that creased Publius’ forehead as he read, each twitch of his lips, the way his hand kept creeping under the pillow to finger the pages of the book there. The _Symposium_ , Plato’s treatise on love.

Publius insisted that Hannibal had to take embarrassing tourist selfies with at least one sexy Roman ruin before he left, so they drove down to the ancient site of Liternum the next day. Hannibal posed dutifully with a nondescript chunk of sunbleached stone that might once have been a Corinthian column, and then, rather more enthusiastically, with Publius. _Nice twink_ , Arishat commented as soon as the pictures went up on Instagram, and Hasdrubal added, _becoming a hermit?? ;)_

Hannibal pointedly turned his phone off, and tossed it into the backseat of Pomponia’s station wagon. “This is your last stop, isn’t it?” asked Publius, waving him over. He was lounging on a sunlit patch of grass behind the carpark, Dying Gaul-style, looking almost like he could be part of the ruin. “What are you gonna do when you get back to Barcelona?”

“Send out my CV,” said Hannibal, joining him on the grass. “Look for an apartment.”

At the other end of the carpark a large group of tourists was spilling out of a coach with their screaming children, but the open car door screened them off, giving him and Publius some privacy. “Luxury condo?” Publius suggested.

“God, no. The shittiest thing I can find.”

Publius laughed. “You’re so weird.”

Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the pear tree above them, dappling his cheeks with shadow. The tip of his nose was dusted with freckles. Carefully careless—“I’ve only got a year left at Bologna.”

There was an artful rip in his distressed jeans rather high up on the thigh, which Hannibal was doing his best not to look at directly. Perhaps he needed a pinhole card or something, the kind for watching solar eclipses. “Where to, after?” he asked.

“ _Boh_ , maybe spend a summer on the Spanish Riviera, squash myself in your hall closet and make you show me around.” Publius grinned, toothy and lopsided, a grin that was a little unsure of itself. “If you think we’ll still be in touch then.”

Hannibal wanted to put his fingers on the smile and even it out. Instead he settled for resting his hand on Publius’ knee, careful not to touch the very salacious thigh rip. Casual, casual, like it might have been an accident. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“You just threw your phone into my mamma’s car,” Publius said. Spots of high colour had lit up over his cheekbones. “And you don’t even have Facebook.”

“I do,” said Hannibal. _Now_ he was touching the thigh rip, and the warm skin beneath. “Look harder.”

Somewhere a motorbike was roaring, wind rustling in the watchful tree above. Publius slid his palm along the line of Hannibal’s jaw and let it sit for a moment, thoughtful, weighing his options. “You’re a puzzle,” he said. “I like puzzles.”

He leaned in and kissed Hannibal. It was so natural, so effortless, that it was a few moments before Hannibal realised what they were doing. His hair smelled of lavender and herbs, his lips smooth with gloss, and Hannibal could feel the bumps of his spine and hipbones through the thin fabric of his shirt. It was a sweet, leisurely kiss, like leafing through a stack of old paperbacks in a sunlit _libreria_ and looking up in surprise to see that hours had passed. “You’re a menace,” said Hannibal, when they broke apart. “I like menaces.”

Publius’ fluffy hair was tickling his ear. Overhead, dusk was beginning to colour the sky red and gold. Publius wove their fingers together, head bent, lashes casting birdtail shadows over his cheeks. "You know what I don't like?" he asked. "Goodbyes."

The last days of Hannibal’s trip disappeared in a frenzy of souvenir-shopping. He had already found antique pearl earrings for his mother in a Parisian boutique, and his father thought the concept of souvenirs stupid and told him not to bother, but the rest of his family was nearly impossible to shop for. In the end he had to buy another suitcase just for gifts—something he had resisted doing all through France and Germany and Switzerland, but then, he reasoned, he had to put Publius’ gladius somewhere—and then he was at the dinner table eating one final serving of Pomponia’s unreasonably good carbonara the night before his flight out of Naples, and assuring everyone he would call and text and e-mail. “Yeah,” said Cornelia with a sly grin, “don’t forget mamma’s homemade fusilli when you’re back home eating caviar by the spoonful.”

“I don’t even like caviar,” Hannibal protested.

“A man of discerning tastes,” said Pomponia. “Publius, honey, are you feeling all right? You haven’t touched your food.”

Publius had been chasing his mushrooms round and round his plate for the better part of twenty minutes. Hannibal found his foot under the table, and nudged it discreetly with his own. “Yeah,” said Publius, looking up briefly. “I’m full.”

Pomponia felt at his forehead. “Coming down with something?”

“Probably.” He gave a loud theatrical sniffle, dodged his mother’s hand, and got up to put his plate in the sink. “I’m going to bed.”

They heard him stomping up the stairs. Then followed a few minutes of silent, intense scrutiny from Pomponia, and extravagant eyebrow-waggling from Cornelia. Hannibal inhaled the rest of his carbonara and got up, too. “I think there’s something I forgot to pack.”

Publius was indeed in bed when Hannibal got to their room, his quilts drawn up all the way so only a matted tuft of fine hair stuck out to show where his head was. Hannibal sat down by the mattress. “Publius.”

No answer. “Publius. I know you’re awake.”

Some squirming. A few more locks of hair manifested, and then Publius’ tousled head made an appearance. “Go away. I’m contagious.”

“Not convincing.”

Publius pinched his nose and said, nasally, “How’s this?”

“Like a dying duck,” said Hannibal. “It’s all right. I’ll miss you too.”

The dying duck made a face. “Who said anything about missing you? I’m not done with Simone Weil, is all.”

“I’ll leave her behind. Now you’re cured.”

“Fuck you,” said Publius. He gazed forlornly at Hannibal, his chin pillowed on his arms. “I’m an incurable romantic.”

“I know,” said Hannibal. “You sleep with Plato’s _Symposium_ under your pillow. Come up here.”

He climbed into bed, avoiding the eagle’s beak quite deftly by now, and threw back the elephant bedspread. Publius said, “Mamma’s gonna kill me,” but after a moment he did get up, sliding beneath the covers next to Hannibal with surprising grace for one so gangly. No shirt, as usual. His chest was furred with fine, dusky-bronze hair. “God, I missed my bed. Can’t wait for you to leave.”

“I bet.”

Publius’ lips twitched. Hannibal watched him, intent, waiting. They were perched on the precipice of something, but damned if he was going to make a move before he understood what. Like a shy creature Publius’ hand snuck beneath the hem of his sweater, hovered for a moment, and came to rest, warm, against the small of his back. “Take this off.”

“Bossy,” said Hannibal. He didn’t mind.

“You’re in my bed. I’m allowed to boss you.”

This seemed like indisputable logic. Hannibal crossed his arms, slow, unhurried, and pulled the sweater over his head. Publius rolled them over to straddle him, his hands gaining confidence, roving, questing, skimming across Hannibal’s chest and down his sides. “ _Deditio in fidem, deditio in potestatem, deditio in dicionem_ ,” he murmured. “A voluntary and unconditional surrender to the faith, the power, and the jurisdiction of the Roman Republic.”

As a rule Hannibal was apt to forget he had a body, and often wished he could do away with the faulty thing altogether and exist as pure consciousness, but now those hands were making him glad he could not. Hot, greedy, insistent. “Is that what you want?”

“I’ve got it, haven’t I?” asked Publius. He was a sight, his cheeks and chest flushed bright pink, his ruffled hair feathering every which way. The wolf heads glimmered gold as Hannibal slid his hands up towards them and brushed them, lightly, with just the tips of his fingers. “Harder. You know, the moment I saw you at dinner that first day—harder, for fuck’s sake—I decided I had to have you. To conquer you.”

“Did you,” said Hannibal, and lost the thought as Publius shifted his hips against him. “Did you really think. In two weeks.”

“I’m very efficient,” said Publius. “And you looked so adorable. That stupid turtleneck and jeans—speaking of which, you better unbutton those—”

Hannibal did so, and with a lot of wriggling Publius managed to wrestle them off, along with his own shorts, all without getting out of his lap. Hannibal was aching with need, and his brain seemed to be shorting out; it kept sparking forth disconnected words like CHEST and WOLVES and LEGS and FUCK, like a laptop someone had dropped into the sink. “I don’t remember what I was wearing.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Publius, with a disdainful sniff—his cotton briefs were tiny and white and concealed absolutely nothing—“you dress like a hobo, but I notice these things. There’s condoms and lube in the top dresser drawer.”

Hannibal leaned over, with some difficulty; he was pinned quite firmly to the bed. “Don’t call me a hobo when you’re about to fuck me.”

“First you’re going to fuck _me_ ,” said Publius. He shimmied out of his briefs and went for Hannibal’s. “Now get your goddamn fingers in me, and be quick about it, ‘cause we only got one night and I wanna fuck you after.”

Hannibal found the tube of lube at last and squeezed half its contents over his hand. It smelled like roses and strawberries and, astoundingly, contained no trace of glitter. “You’re a real bossy _imperator_ , aren’t you?”

Publius’ eyes went dark and narrow. He took Hannibal’s hand by the wrist and slid it between his legs. “Call me that again.”

Much later, when they had half-drowsed, half-talked the night away, Publius lifted his head from where it had been pillowed on Hannibal’s chest and gave him a broad, satisfied smile. “Imagine,” he said, “if Marcus Porcius had been just slightly less unbearable, we would never have met.”

“We’d have found each other some other way,” said Hannibal. He was not a romantic. This was a statement of fact.

“Still,” said Publius. “I’m sending him a fruit basket.”

Hannibal left after breakfast the next morning. There was no sense in delaying the inevitable. Cornelia fistbumped him, and Pomponia gave him a hug and a tin of sugar biscuits to eat on the plane, and Publius hunched sulkily behind them with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Wish I could find that sweater I was wearing last night,” said Hannibal, as he manoeuvred his suitcase to the door. He was still sore. “Any ideas?”

“Nope,” said Publius, who was wearing it under his denim jacket.

 

* * *

**III. BARCELONA**

Hannibal procrastinated all autumn on finding a teaching post. Most of the vacancies were on the wrong side of the Atlantic, and after Italy he didn’t feel much like uprooting himself again. In October he moved out of Arishat’s fourth-best beachside motel and into a shoebox apartment in a walkup that wasn’t exactly in a seedy part of town, but certainly wasn’t the Riviera either; and in November he threw a housewarming party for his horrified family, at which he served them reheated McDonald’s pancakes and 5€ supermarket wine in dinky styrofoam cups. “Is this,” said his father, with an expression that suggested he was spectating at a five-car pileup, “is this some kind of millennial fad?”

“Probably,” said Hannibal.

“Like avocado toast?”

“Yep.”

“Can I talk you out of it?”

On the counter, Hannibal’s phone was lighting up with a full screen of messages from Publius. “Nope.”

And then it was New Year’s Eve, which in Barcelona was not cold but gusty and wet, since they were having one of their rare December downpours. Mago had precipitated himself at the door of Hannibal’s new place sometime after dinner—neither of them wanted to go to Arishat’s perfectly ridiculous countdown party at the private clubhouse—and was now watching _Survivor_ reruns and eating his way through the fridge while Hannibal ignored him in favour of his phone. The tree in the background of Publius’ latest Snapchat looked familiar in a way he couldn’t place, though of course he was too distracted by the main subject’s saucy little smile to think very hard about it. Publius, he thought, always smiled like he was getting away with something.

The doorbell rang. It rang again, and again. Mago said, “Aren’t you going to get that?”

Hannibal made a nebulous hand gesture without looking up. He was dimly aware of Mago heaving himself off the couch with an air of extreme long-suffering, and some door-creaking and lock-scraping, and several abortive starts to the same conversation while he and the caller tried to find a language they had in common. Then Mago came back. “Soggy twink at the door for you.”

“Didn't order one,” said Hannibal. Then the word _twink_ sank in, and he looked up. “Is he glittery?”

“Like a unicorn.”

“ _Mierda_ ,” said Hannibal. “That’s my twink.”

He bolted for the door. He didn’t have far to bolt, though he did have to hurdle several piles of aging Loebs that he’d run out of shelf space for and so had left lying around for use as foostools. Publius was wedged into the entryway with his fat purple suitcase, looking around with great interest. His head was bumping the lamp above the door. “Hello,” he said. “ _Encantado. Enchanté._ What a coincidence.”

He _was_ quite soggy. His eyeshadow was running, so he looked like he was weeping indigo glitter, and his shirt—fuchsia plaid, tied with a flourish at the waist—was so soaked it was translucent. Hannibal looked down, and sure enough, there were Remus and Romulus baring their teeth at him from their customary places. “Publius,” he said. Then he said it a few more times. “Publius. What—”

“It’s me,” Publius confirmed. He was dripping water all over the tiles. “Wow. Your place is even shittier in person.”

“It is,” said Hannibal proudly. It came to him that the tree in the snap was the droopy oak at the end of his street, droopier than usual because of the rain. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know,” said Publius. His overstuffed suitcase fell over, collapsing a nearby tower of Plutarch and Plato. “Told my dad I was heading to MIT to spend Christmas with Cornelia—oh, hey, you’ve still got my gladius—”

He gestured. The sword was hanging in pride of place above the shoe closet, the first thing any visitor would see. Hannibal had the feeling it was the sole part of the flat his father had liked. “You’re only about a continent off,” he said. “And an ocean.”

“I’m hopeless at maps,” Publius agreed. “Good thing Cornelia’s got a nice girl staying over for the holidays and doesn’t want me in the way, hm? So I figured I might as well start apartment-hunting now, since I’ll be coming over next year for the thing with the thing—”

Hannibal had reached down to right the fallen suitcase. He stopped, and braced his hand on the wall. “What thing with the thing?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” asked Publius, wide-eyed and cherubic. “ _Vogue España_ ’s flying me in right after I graduate this June, something about needing a new menswear editor, or maybe it was makeup, I don’t know, I _no hablo español_.”

He examined his nails, painted splendid gold and deepest crimson. Hannibal could feel a tremendous smile threatening to split his face in two. “How’d you even get the job?”

“ _Mi madre habla español_ ,” Publius explained, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “I had a phone interview and she was on the extension telling me what to say. Now she’s got six months to teach me the words for _sequins_ and _highlighter_ and _I would like a raise now please_ , but I already know Italian and Latin and a bit of French, so how hard could it be? Also”—he was breathless by now—“when are you going to kiss me?”

The rain was beginning to slow. In the warm glow of the ceiling lamp, still orbiting gently around the top of Publius’ head, everything was bright with moisture and absurdity. Hannibal said, “Right now.”

Publius was wearing a new perfume—musk and rose—but otherwise he felt the same in Hannibal’s arms as he had in July, his lips just as soft, his mouth as demanding. He was coming to Spain, Hannibal thought; Publius was coming here to live with him in the terrible apartment and do terrible things in the name of fashion; Hannibal was going to be able to show him off to his family, to wake up to this every day: kissing Publius till they were out of breath, till they were laughing and their lips were sliding apart and they had to surface for air. “Mmm,” said Publius. “I thought it would be really romantic to arrive soaked through and shivering and let you warm me up. But it’s pretty disgusting.”

“On the bright side,” said Hannibal, somewhat dazed, “I have a nice shower.”

“Also lip gloss in your beard,” said Mago from behind him, in a tone of abject boredom. “And mascara on your nose.”

Publius laughed. It lit up his whole face. Between that and the glitter, he was practically incandescent, surreal as a hologram. “All right,” said Hannibal, grabbing his brother’s arm and hustling him to the door. “Time for you to head to Arishat’s party.”

“What? I don’t want to!”

“Then go bother Hasdrubal instead, he actually gives a shit about New Year—”

“The buses aren’t running!” Mago protested. “I don’t have taxi fare!”

This was a baldfaced lie, but he was making the hangdog nobody-loves-me face that mostly meant he wanted money or food or attention or all three, so Hannibal grabbed his wallet from the coffee table and crammed the whole thing at him, along with his car keys. “There you go.”

“Bye,” said Publius brightly.

Mago disappeared out the door with a few half-hearted parting profanities and no little glee, taking most of Hannibal’s cash and all twelve of his credit cards with him. Hannibal was going to regret it in the morning, but not tonight. “Now,” said Publius, with relish, “we can get down to business.”

God, Hannibal thought, he loved his bossy twink. “You’ve prepared an itinerary?”

“A thorough one,” said Publius, beaming. “First kiss me again.”

 

* * *

**IV. ONE YEAR LATER**

**Author's Note:**

>   * want to know what else is on the sciplet's sex playlist? thanks in large part to joce, [now you can!](https://open.spotify.com/user/valipoke/playlist/6WLsDLTuIZZLdmKoM7WroD?si=Dmyv53UrTSWIlIAYn8Fnhw)
>   * gladius pic from [here](https://sbg-sword-store.sword-buyers-guide.com), all other images are stock photos from shutterstock and pexels
>   * follow me on [tumblr](http://enemyofrome.tumblr.com/post/173127307629/perne-in-a-gyre-scipibal-7k-m-mixed-media) for more punic wars nonsense
>   * i also have a [novel](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/32322796-elegy) out if you're into enemies-to-lovers
> 



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